CHAPTER V
IN "PITCHFORK'S" PLACE
"Well I say now! I wonder what's up? Could I have----" Thus beganShambler to commune with himself as he watched Tom. "Something's wrong.He doesn't like Langridge and Gerhart, that's evident. I must find outabout this."
Which he very soon did, after a short talk with his new chums, and myreaders may be sure that Tom and his friends did not get any of the bestof the showing, in the account Langridge and his crony gave of theiraffair, and the reasons for their withdrawal to Boxer Hall, told of in aprevious volume of this series.
"Humph! If that's the kind of lads they are I don't want anything to dowith them," said Shambler, as he gazed after the retreating inseparables,following the tale of Langridge and Gerhart.
"They're not our style at all," declared Langridge with a sneer. "Still,don't let us keep you from them, if you'd rather train in their camp."
"Oh, I'm out for a good time!" declared Shambler boastfully. "I onlytried to get in with them as I heard they were in the athletic crowd,and----"
"Hot athletes they are!" sneered Gerhart. "Say, if this talked-of anall-around athletic contest comes off this Spring, and our college goesin for it, we'll wipe up the field with Randall, and Fairview too. Theywon't know they started. I don't see why you didn't come to Boxer Hall,Shambler."
"I wish I had, but it's too late now. But say, I'm going in forathletics, even if you fellows think you can do us up. I don't have totrain with the Parsons crowd to do it though."
"No," admitted Langridge. "And so you offered to introduce Tom Parsonsto us. Ha! Ha! No wonder he shied off!" and he laughed sneeringly. "But,if we're going to town, come on before it gets too late." And with thatthe trio swung off toward the trolley line that would take them toHaddonfield.
Meanwhile Tom and his chums tramped over the snow-covered campus, idlykicking the white flakes aside.
"Doesn't look much like baseball; does it?" remarked Tom, as he made asnowball, and tossed it high in the air.
"No, but it can't last forever," declared Sid. "I say, did any of youhear anything more about having a track team, and going in for fieldathletics this Spring?"
"Only general talk," replied Phil.
"There goes Dutch Housenlager," spoke Frank. "Let's see if he knowsanything."
"He's got his back turned," whispered Tom. "It's a good chance to play ajoke on him. Get in front of him, Sid, and be talking to him. I'll sneakup, and kneel down in back. Then give him a gentle push and he'll upsetand turn a somersault over me."
"Good!" ejaculated Phil. "It will be one that we've owed Dutch for along time."
The trick was soon in process of being played. While Sid held the biglad in earnest conversation, about the possibility of a track team forRandall, Tom silently knelt down behind him. Then Sid, seeing that allwas in readiness, spoke:
"Have you seen the new style of putting the shot, Dutch?"
"Not that I know of," replied the unsuspecting one. "How is it done?"
"This way," answered Sid as, with a quick pressure against the chestof Dutch, he sent him sprawling over Tom's bent back, legs and armsoutstretched.
"Here! I say! Wow! What----"
But the rest that Dutch gave expression to was unintelligible, for heand Tom were rolling over and over in the snow, tightly clenched.
"Event number one. Putting the shot!" cried Sid, after the manner of anannouncer giving a score at track games, "Dutch Housenlager thirty-sevenfeet, six and one-quarter inches!"
"Oh, dry up!" commanded Dutch, as he skillfully tripped Tom, who hadarisen to his feet. "That's one on me all right. Now, if you fellows aredone laughing, I've got a bit of news for you."
"About athletics?" asked Frank eagerly.
"No, but we're going to have a new teacher in Pitchfork's placeto-morrow."
"No!" cried Tom, half disbelieving, as he got up and brushed the snowfrom his garments.
"But yes!" insisted Dutch. "Our beloved and respected Professor EmersonTines--alias Pitchfork--has been called to deliver a lecture on thehabits of the early Romans contrasted with those of the cave dwellers.It's to take place before some high-brow society to-night, and he can'tget back here to-morrow in time to take his classes. He's going toprovide a substitute."
"Oh joy!" cried Phil.
"Wait," cautioned Frank. "The remedy may be worse than the disease."
"Who's the sub?" asked Tom.
"Professor H. A. Broadkins, according to the bulletin board," repliedDutch.
"What's 'H. A.' stand for?" Sid wanted to know.
"Ha! Ha! of course," replied Tom promptly.
"Joke!" spoke Frank solemnly.
"Harold Archibald," declared Sid. "Oh, say, we won't do a thing to him.I'll wager he's one of these pink and white little men, who wears anumber twelve collar, and parts his hair in the middle, so he can walk acrack. Say, will to-morrow ever come?"
"Don't take too much for granted," advised Dutch. "I picked out a HaroldArchibald once as an easy mark, and I got left. This may not be the sameone, but--well, come on down the street. I've got a quarter that'sburning a hole in my pocket, and we might as well help Dobbins raise themortgage on his drug store, by getting some hot chocolate there."
"_Pro bono publico!_" ejaculated Tom. "Your deeds will live after you,Dutch."
"And if you upset me again, you'll go to an early grave," declared thebig lad, as the five strolled off to recuperate after the arduous laborsof the day.
When Tom and his chums filed into Latin recitation the next morning,there was a feeling of expectancy on all sides, for the word had gonearound that there might be "something doing" in regard to the professorwho had come to temporarily fill the place of "Pitchfork."
No one had seen him, as yet, but his probable name of "Harold Archibald,"had been bandied about until it was felt sure that it was an index to hischaracter and build. Judge then, of the surprise of the lads, when theyfound awaiting them a tall man of dark complexion, with a wealth of darkhair, and a face like that of some football player. He was muscular to adegree. There was a gasp of distinct surprise, and several lads who hadcome "not prepared" began to dip surreptitiously into their Latin books,while others, who had contemplated various and sundry tricks, at oncegave them over.
"Good morning, gentlemen," began Professor H. A. Broadkins, in a deep,but not unpleasant voice. (It developed later that his name was HannibalAchilles.) "I am sorry your regular teacher is not here, but I will dothe best I can. You will recite in the usual way."
Thereupon, much to the surprise of the boys, he began giving them alittle history of the particular lesson for the day, roughly sketchingthe events which led up to the happenings, and giving reasons for them.It was much more interesting than when "Pitchfork" had the class and theboys did their best.
But Dutch Housenlager had to have his joke.
The lesson had to do with some of the Roman conquests, and, in order toillustrate how a certain battle was fought the professor, by means ofbooks constructed a sort of model walled city. The besiegers wererepresented by more books, outside the walls.
"This was one of the first battles in which the catapult was used," wenton the instructor. "You can imagine the surprise of the besieged armywhen the Romans wheeled this great engine of war close to the walls, andbegan hurling great stones. In a measure the catapult served to coverthe attack on another part of the city.
"For instance we will make a sort of catapult by means of this ruler.This piece of mineral will do for the stone, and er--I think I will askone of you young men to assist me--er--you," and he pointed to Dutch."Just come here, and you may work the catapult when I give the word. Iwant to show the class how the other division of the army sapped thewalls."
There came into the eyes of Dutch a gleam of mischief, as he looked atthe improvised catapult. It consisted of a ruler balanced on a book,with a piece of mineral, from a cabinet of geological specimens, for thestone. By tapping the unweighted end of the ruler smartly the rockcould be made to fly o
ver into the midst of the besieged city. ButDutch also noticed something else.
There was, on the table where the professor had laid out his map ofbattle, an inkwell. When he thought the teacher was not looking Dutchsubstituted the ink for the stone. A tap on the ruler would now send theinkwell flying. Mr. Broadkins did not seem to notice this as he went onwith his preparations to sap the city walls.
"Now we are all ready," he announced. "You may operate the catapult," headded, apparently not looking at it, and Dutch, with a grin at hischums, prepared to hit the ruler a good blow. He calculated that the inkwould be well distributed.
Suddenly the professor changed his plans. Without seemingly looking atDutch, or the catapult, he said:
"On second thoughts you may come here--er--Mr. Housenlager. I will workthe catapult, and you may represent the invading division. All readynow. Stand here."
Dutch dared not disobey, nor dare he change the inkwell for the innocentstone. Yet he knew, and all the class could see, that he was standingwhere he would get a dusky bath in another minute. And the professorappeared all unconscious of the inkwell.
"Ready!" called Mr. Broadkins, and he struck the unweighted end of theruler a smart blow.
Up into the air rose the bottle of ink. It described a graceful curve,and then descended. Dutch tried to dodge, but, somehow, he was not quickenough, and the inkwell hit him on the shoulder. Up splashed the blackfluid, and a moment later Dutch looked like a negro minstrel, while anew pink tie, of which he was exceedingly proud, took on a new andwonderful pattern in burnt cork splatter design.
"Wow! Wuff!" spluttered the fun-loving student, as some ink went in hismouth. And then the class roared.
For the Honor of Randall: A Story of College Athletics Page 5